Fifty Shades of Grey Hair II
by American Chimpanzee
Summary: Like Grey Hair I, these stories are based on classic jokes like this bad driver joke by Will Rogers: "When I die, I want to die like my grandfather who died peacefully in his sleep. Not screaming like all the passengers in his car."
1. The Night Light

"Ana."

"Yes, Christian?"

"The most amazing thing happened to me last night. As you know, I get up several times a night to empty my bladder. Well, every time I opened the door, the bathroom light came on by itself. EVERY time!"

"Christian."

"Yes, Ana?"

"You're peeing in the refrigerator again."


	2. Can It Really Be The End?

I'm crying as I write this.

The world—MY world—feels like it's crumbling all around me.

First, my brother-in-law Elliott is heartbroken because he just got the news that his wife Kate, my bestest and dearest friend in all the world, has passed on.

Did I say "passed on"? I meant passed around.

By the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Add to that, my beloved husband of seventy-five years, Christian, is in the hospital. It's serious. Our family physician, Dr. Bombay, told me to do what I can to comfort him.

"I'll do what I can to keep him alive for as long as I can," he says, sympathetically, "or at least long enough to pay what he owes me."

So I go into Christian's room and see him laying in his hospital bed attached to things that flash or drip or beep.

He looks so... human.

"How are you feeling, dear?" I ask him, putting on a smile and trying to sound chipper.

"Not so good," he tells me, never one to lie or be dishonest or another word that means the same thing.

"The doctor says he's hopeful," I say.

"Nothing wrong with hoping," Christian answers.

Christian pauses, thinking thoughtful thoughts.

"Ana?" he says, finally.

"Yes, dear?"

"I've decided. If and when I die, I want you to marry my brother Elliott."

I gasp.

"B-b-b-but Christian," I sputter, "I thought you HATED your brother?"

Christian grins devilishly.

"I do," he says.


	3. Bad News First

When my beloved Christian was first admitted into the hospital, it was an emergency situation, so we found ourselves in an ER filled with blue collar peons, not the upper class muckity-mucks and hippity-hops we normally associate with.

In the little area we found ourselves in, we were only separated from the huddled masses yearning to be free by a curtain hanging on a rod by what I was told were metal rings.

"And how do you operate this quaint device?" I asked the doctor in charge.

"To open it," he told us, "you pull it this way. To close it, you pull it back. And I'm the janitor, by the way."

"Why, I never," I sputtered, not use to such direct contact with the employee in charge of cleaning toilets. In the little mansion we call home, the person in charge of cleaning the toilets has to be defumigated, deregulated, and discombobulated before they can exit the bathroom. This is in the interest of not contaminating our humble-yet _very_ expensive-home.

So I closed the curtain to give us a modicum of privacy (I pronounce it: _preh-va-see_. You should, too.), but we could still hear the annoying going-ons in the hospital bed next to us.

"I've got good news and I've got bad," we could hear the doctor say. "What would you like to hear first?"

"Give me the bad news first," the patient said, trying to be brave.

"We have to amputate both your legs," the doctor told him bluntly.

"Holy crap!" the patient sputtered, his voice breaking with emotion. "What could possibly be the good news?"

"Christian Grey is on the other side of this curtain, and he wants to buy your slippers."


	4. If A Penis Was 12 Inches It'd Be A Foot

In another cubical, there was a man who apparently had a one-night stand with a freak. He had sex with a woman by inserting his foot into her hey-nanny-nanny. Now, THAT'S what I call getting off on the right foot.

When the doctor took a look at his stinky appendage, he yelped, "My God, man! You've got syphilis of the big toe!"

The patient didn't seem to be so surprised.

"Rare, eh?" he told the doctor.

"Not as rare as the girl who came in here yesterday,' the doctor told him. "She had Athlete's Vagina."


	5. Support

Holy Crap!

It's Kate!

My bestest, most dearest rich friend in all the world. What's _she_ doing here? We were roommates back in college, and our bond of sisterhood has remained strong after all these years.

"And you are...?" Kate greeted me with.

That Kate, she's such a kidder. She must have heard that Christian was in the hospital and immediately came to give her support.

"No, I'm actually here to see José," she told me.

"José?" I yelped in surprise. José is my dearest, gayest, most Hispanic friend in all the world.

"Yes, José. He was in a horrible car accident," she informed me.

So I told Christian I'd be back—"And you are...?" he told me, catching Kate's impish sense of humor.—and joined my best friend to visit my other best friend.

When we got to José's room, it was sad to see him in his hospital bed.

"José?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

" _Si?_ "José answered, his voice weak.

"It's Ana."

"Who?"

"Ana."

"Ana?"

"Yes."

"Ana's not here."

"No, it's ME. Ana."

"Is that one or two N's?"

"One."

"I don't have the money I owe you," he said.

That José. He's such a kidder.

"Are you okay?" I asked him, honestly concerned.

"I can't feel my legs," he whimpered.

As I looked at his frail frame laying pathetically on the bed, Kate was busy admiring at her nails.

"That's because they amputated both your arms," she pointed out.


	6. An Untimely Death

Kate and I heard laughing just outside of José's door.

We looked, and saw it was a doctor. Talk about a poor bedside manner.

"I'm sorry," he told us, "but a friend of mine just died."

When he saw the shocked look on our faces, he continued. "He was a heart surgeon, you see, and I've just come from his wake."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I told him, offering my sympathies.

"What _she_ said," Kate replied.

"But that doesn't explain..." I began, letting the sentence hang there like one of my beloved Christian's testicles.

"At the end of the wake, after the eulogy, a huge heart covered with flowers slowly opened, and my friend in his coffin solemnly entered it... and THAT made me think of my own funeral."

The perplexed look on our faces caused him to explain further.

"I'm a gynecologist, you see."


	7. Call Me Squeamish

Call me squeamish, but I hate hospitals.

There's something about the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to be free.

Holy crap! Am I mistaking one thing for another?

Well, same difference.

I remember, just after my beloved Christian and I were married, I had to have an operation.

Christian, always the practical one, asked the surgeon how long it would be after my surgery before we could have sex again.

"You know, Mr. Grey," the surgeon told him, "you're the first person to ever ask me that about a tonsillectomy."


	8. The New Doctor

Well, oil's well that ends well, as the great Shakesrear used to say.

My beloved Christian and I are back home from the hospital, snug as two bugs in a rug. As long as those bugs are very rich and the rug is very expensive.

When I got back to my husband's hospital room after visiting with Kate and José, a different doctor was there, Dr. Vinnie Boombatz. He said Christian's personal physician couldn't be there because he was busy "sleeping one off."

"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Grey?" he wanted to know.

"Well, doctor," I began, speaking for Christian as I have always done since the day we were married.

"Please, Mrs. Grey," the doctor told me. "I was speaking to your husband."

"Well, I never!" I sniffed in insulted indignation.

"Or at least until you became too old," he said, and then looked encouragingly at my husband.

"Well, doctor," Christian began, "as you know, my own physician—Dr. Bombay—has spent the last few days performing many an expensive test trying to figure just that out. This hospital stay is costing me a fortune, and I'm not even getting any sex as a result. When a man spends a substantial amount of money, he deserves some nookie. You know, like it is in the dating world."

The doctor waited, and, quite frankly, so did I.

When Christian quit being distracted by a piece of lint floating in the light on the other side of the room, he continued.

"Anyway, at great expense, my own doctor hasn't been able to figure out what grave ailment I have, so, nothing personal, but I'm hard pressed to believe that YOU'LL be able to."

"Well," Dr. Boombatz said, "humor me."

"It's just that no matter where I touch on my body, it hurts," Christian explained to him. "If I touch my head, it hurts. If I touch my foot, it hurts. If I touch my knee, it hurts. It hurts when I touch my neck, or my shoulder, or my arm. My leg. Hurts. My knee. Hurts. My belly. Hurts. Hip, chest, elbow? Hurts, hurts, hurts. Like I've said countless times before, no matter what part of my body I touch, it hurts, and Dr. Bombay just can't figure out why."

"I see," the new physician said. "Do you mind if I take a closer look?"

Christian agreed, and that's exactly what the doctor did.

"I see your problem," the doctor immediately diagnosed.

"YOU DO?" we both yelped in disbelief.

"Yes," he said. "Your finger's broken."


	9. Feeling Spry

Once back from the hospital, my dear beloved Christian is feeling rather spry.

"Ana," he tells me, "after all these years, I'm _still_ obsessed with your breasts."

"At _my_ age?" I ask him.

" _Especially_ at your age," he replies.

My, but the old bugger really _is_ a pervert.

Of course, I don't believe him. At my age, everything is heavier, hairier, and closer to the ground, so "Okay," I tell him, "say the first thing that comes into your mind when I say a word."

"Okay," he agrees.

"Oranges."

" _Jugs!_ " he answers, without any hesitation.

"Grapefruits."

" _Knockers!_ "

"Plums."

" _Boobies!_ "

"Windshield wipers."

" _Gazongas!_ " Christian exclaims.

"Now wait a minute," I tell him. "I can understand oranges, grapefruits, or even plums making you think of my breasts, but _windshield wipers?_ "

" _Especially_ windshield wipers," he explains. "You see, first _this_ one, then _that_ one, then _this_ one, then _that_ one..."


	10. Urine Trouble? I'M In Trouble!

Imagine my surprised when I found myself at the hospital emergency room only days after my beloved Christian was released.

When we got home, Christian was like a young man, ravishing me like the ravishing ravisher that he once was, not even bothering to remove his trousers.

"Why, Mrs. Grey," Doctor Vinnie Boombatz greeted me, "What an unexpected pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine," I assured him, offering my hand. "As is my, um, medical condition," I said, putting it as delicately as I could.

"Well, my dear, I'll do my best to help you."

He stood there and waited. As did I, too embarrassed to continue.

"And your 'condition' is?" he asked, wanting to get the show on the road.

"Well, Doctor Boombatz," I said, "when I, um, 'tinkle,' my urine comes out in FOUR streams."

"I beg your pardon?"

"When I tinkle, my urine comes out in FOUR streams."

"I see," Doctor Boombatz said, and then paused, rubbing his chin in consternation. "Well," he said, finally, "how about I take a look?"

Despite my embarrassment, I disrobed, laid back, spread my legs, closed my eyes, and prepared for the worst.

Much as I do with sex.

The doctor buried his head between my thighs, but not in the fun way, and immediately uttered, "Ah, HERE'S the problem. You can put your clothes on, Mrs. Grey. You'll be fine now."

"What did you do, Doctor?"

"I took the trouser button out of your vagina," he said.


	11. Who Is This?

As I said my goodbyes to Dr. Vinnie Boombatz, his cell phone started to ring, chime, or whatever the holy crap kind of sound it made to let him know he had a call.

I waved at the door as he answered, waving back.

"You've gotta help!" I heard a voice cry out from the phone in panic.

"Who is this?" Dr. Boombatz wanted to know.

"You've gotta help!" the voice continued. "My wife's going into labor! My wife's going into labor and you've gotta help!"

"Calm down," the doctor said. "Tell me, is this her first child?"

"No," the voice said. "This is her _husband!_ "


	12. Dr Vinnie Boombatz

My beloved Christian and I were so happy with the medical treatment we both got from Doctor Vinnie Boombatz that not only were we grateful, we were _greatful_.

"Christian, dear," I told him, "we really must do something for Dr. Boombatz. If it weren't for him, your finger would still be broken and I would still be peeing in four streams, like the common folk."

"Is it going to cost me any money?" Christian wanted to know.

Holy crap, is my guy funny or what?

So we made our way to the hospital, and asked to see the Head Hookah.

"Do you have an appointment?" his receptionist asked us.

Ha-ha!

What a kidder.

I'm sure she'll find another job soon.

"How can I help you?" Dr. Anton Phibes wanted to know.

"We'd like to do something special for Dr. Vinnie Boombatz," one of us told him.

I think it was me.

"Who?" the Head Hookah responded.

"Dr. Vinnie Boombatz," Christian repeated. "He's in charge of your E.R."

"Boombatz...Boombatz..." Dr. Phibes turned the name over in his mouth like a fluffer in an x-rated movie. "I'm sorry, Mr. Grey, but there is no doctor at this hospital with that name."

"What do you mean there is no doctor here by that name?" Christian sputtered, getting agitated. "He diagnosed my broken finger when my own personal physician-Dr. Bombay-couldn't, and, not only that, but he fixed my wife's sick vagina."

"Did it fall again?" Dr. Phibes asked, slightly changing the subject.

"No, it was urinating in four streams," Christian explained, as I blushed.

"Completely normal," Dr. Phibes said, abominably.

Just then, Dr. Boombatz walked past the open door... _carrying a mop!_

" _There!_ " I cried out. "There he is!"

Both Christian and Dr. Phibes looked up just in time to see the doctor we were referencing walk by.

" _That's_ your Doctor Boombatz?" the Head Hookah asked us in surprise.

"Yes!" we both cried out in unison.

"I hate to tell you this," he told us, hatingly, "but _he's_ the _JANITOR!_ "


	13. A Sad Fact of Life

As one gets older, one's mental faculties decline.

It's sad, but it's a fact of life.

Why, just the other day I was taking a Sunday drive in the city with my beloved husband Christian.

"Holy crap!" I told him. "You just drove through a red light!"

"What do you mean ME?" he yelped. "YOU'RE the one who's driving.


	14. The Good Sport

My maid was crying.

Normally, I try not to get involved in the lower caste's personal affairs, such as: Are they happy? Are they healthy? Are we paying them enough? But I couldn't ignore her as she was plucking my nose hairs at the time.

Growing old is not pretty, my friends.

"Why are you crying, my dear?" I asked her, fully intending to ignore her response and think of something pleasant, such as sassafras.

"I was at a bar," she blubbered, "and a handsome young man asked me if I wanted a drink. 'Sure,' I told him. 'I'm a good sport.' After a few drinks, he said, 'Want to go back to my place?' 'Sure,' I told him. 'I'm a good sport.' So we went to his place and had some more to drink. 'Let's go into the bedroom,' he suggested. 'Sure,' I told him. 'I'm a good sport.'"

She put her face in the cup of her hands, and wailed, "Oh, Mrs. Grey, now I'm pregnant and I think I'm going to kill myself!"

"My," Christian said, " you ARE a good sport."


	15. Proper Stimulation

I remember when I was a young girl, barely a freshman in high school, my biology teacher asked me in front of the entire class, "All right, Miss Steele, what part of the body can grow to three times its normal size with the proper stimulation?"

Embarrassed, I giggled and blushed.

"I-I would prefer not to answer that," I stammered innocently.

He laughed at my naivete, and said, "Miss Steele, the correct answer is the pupil of the eye."

Holy crap, was _I_ way off!

"I have three things to tell you," he told me. "One, you didn't do the assigned reading. Two, you have a _very_ dirty mind. And three... boy, are _you_ going to be disappointed on your wedding night."


	16. What's Happening Under The Trees?

My beloved Christian and I were taking a walk around our gated community.

At OUR age, it's a good idea to exercise. Used to be, the only walking we did was behind the coffins of old friends who DIDN'T exercise.

"Use it before you lose it, Ana," Christian is fond of telling me, and, trust me, even at HIS age he hasn't lost it at all. He can still swing a paddle with the best of them.

Ping-pong, I mean.

If you thought otherwise, you have a dirty mind.

Speaking of dirty minds—and pardon me for rambling—but that reminds me of a period in our marriage when our sex life needed some... um... re-energizing. My solution was to buy Christian Viagra.

Christian's was to buy me a treadmill.

But I digress...

On our walk, we couldn't help but notice one mansion in particular with an abundance of trees, really magnificent specimens. However, as we got closer, we saw that there was a man and woman under one of them, doing, well, what men and women do in the privacy of their own recording studio.

We walked a bit further and saw TWO MORE people engaged in sex under another tree. When, under still ANOTHER tree, we saw a THIRD couple making the Beast With Two Backs, we decided to go up to the door, ring the doorbell, and find out what in the holy crap was going on.

A mature, but still very attractive, woman answered the door. She was wearing a nightie. One with fur lining the bottom. Apparently, to keep her neck warm, if you know what I mean.

You don't?

Hmm... maybe YOU should go on a few walks.

"What's going on?" Christian asked. "Why are there people having sex under those beautiful trees in your yard?"

The woman laughed.

"My dear Mr. Grey," she told my husband. "This is a brothel for the rich, and we're having a yard sale."


	17. The Importance Of Keeping A Diary

With the recent revelation that our new Supreme Court justice, Bret Kavanaugh, has kept a diary for the majority of his life, people found it odd that a teenaged boy would keep a diary.

I didn't find that particularly odd.

The rich and the successful are different than you or I, my friends, and I DO consider all of you to be my friends.

Except for _you_ , that is.

Anyway...

My beloved husband Christian has kept impeccable records all of his life.

Names, dates, blood types.

We were at the airport one day, standing in the VIP lounge, when a man came up to us.

"Excuse me, Mr. Grey," he said, "but were you ever in Chicago?"

Christian took out his personal diary, opened it, and searched.

"Cities... cities..." he said. "Chicago. Yes, I've been to Chicago."

"You were?" the gentleman said "Well, were you ever in Archie's Place?"

"Hold on," Christian told him, and again started to search through his personal diary.

"Taverns... taverns... Archie's Place. Yes, as a matter of fact, I _have_ been to Archie's Place."

The man grew agitated.

"Did you ever meet a girl there named Susie Jones?" he demanded to know.

"Hold on, old chap," Christian told him. "Let me see... let me see..." and he referred to his personal diary yet again. "Girls... girls... Johnson... Jones... Mary... Sarah... Susie. _Susie_ _Jones!_ Yes, I _have_ met Susie Jones."

"Oh, _yeah?_ " the man said, looking ready to put up his dukes. "Well, I'm her husband and _I don't like it._ "

Christian referred to his personal diary a final time.

"Opinions... opinions... It seems I didn't like it, either," he said.


	18. Lights Out

I guess you could say my beloved husband and I are in the twilight of our lives—hmm... Twilight... I wonder why _that_ sounds so familiar—but Christian, randy old goat that he is, still has a way of surprising me inside of the bedroom and out.

"Let's go for walk, my love," he tells me. "The compound is lovely this time of year."

He's put in his dentures, so I know he means business.

"Shall we turn on the outside lights?" I ask him, remembering the time when he took out the trash and we had to form a search party.

"It won't be necessary, my dear," he assures me. "There's a full moon tonight—a harvest moon, they call it—and we'll have plenty of light."

Well, let me tell you, I knew he was up to something, and there, underneath the cherry blossom tree, he lay me down and things got hot and heavy on our lush lawn. It would have just been hot, but I've been cheating on my diet for the last fifty years.

"Christian."

"Yes, Ana?"

"I do wish you had turned on the lights."

"Why's that?"

"Because," I gently say, "you've been eating grass for the last twenty minutes."


	19. The Wok

Growing old is no fun, let me tell you.

The physical changes in your body are enough to make you plotz or pass gas, but my dear Christian, he loves me just as much as the day we were wed. He loves me not for who I was, but for who I've become. Osteoporosis and all.

But this is a story about Kate. My dearest, bestest, oldest friend in the whole world. She also suffers from the indignity of osteoporosis. Maybe even worse... but you didn't hear that from me. Quasimodo laughs at her poor posture.

Just the other day, I was visiting her. Her maid had the day off, so I saw her going here and there, doing this and that, giving tit for tat.

"Nice tattoo," I told her as her personal tattoo artist was leaving.

I couldn't help but notice that she was searching through her kitchen cabinets for a wok.

"In the mood for some Chinese food?" I asked her.

"No," she told me. "I just need to iron my blouse."


	20. The Funeral

I hate funerals.

And, yet, there I was. At the funeral of the husband of the woman I call Mrs. Robinson. Christian and I were at the hospital when he died. Trust me, it was an ugly scene.

"Get out!" Mr. Lincoln yelled from his hospital bed when he saw Christian enter the room, his skinny arms flailing about like an angry muppet's, tubes and wires flying everywhere.

"He's never forgiven you for having an affair with me when you were fifteen," she told my husband, ignoring me. "Or me, for that matter. I'll never forget how angry he was the night he found out. He broke my arm, cracked four of my ribs, busted my jaw... and I loved every minute of it."

"And I STILL haven't forgiven you, Elena," he rasped, gasping for air. "By all that is holy, after I'm dead I'm going to dig my way out of my grave and come back and haunt you!"

And then he promptly expired.

Like I said... not pretty.

At the wake after the burial, Christian and I went up to pay our respects.

"Elena," my husband offered.

"Christian," she cooed.

"Mrs. Lincoln," I said, icily.

"Ana," she answered, just as frosty. "I'm so grateful that you came."

"Tell me, Mrs. Lincoln..." I began.

"Ana," Christian cautioned, giving me a look.

"Yes?" Mrs. Robinson challenged me, a sharp glint in her eye.

Encouraged to continue, I continued, "Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid?" she repeated, the sharpness turning quizzical. "Why should I be afraid?"

"Before he died," I reminded her, "your husband swore he would dig his way out of his grave and haunt you."

"Oh, that," she dismissed with a flip of her wrist. "Let him dig to his heart's desire, dear. I buried him upside down."


	21. Make Sure He's Dead

Holy Crap!

You wouldn't believe the adventure my beloved husband Christian and I had last night.

We had just let the staff go home for the night, and Christian and I had gone to bed early for some... for some... well, let's just say for some milk and cookies, when— **CRASH!** —we heard a window being shattered downstairs and someone climbing in through it.

"Christian!" I gasped. "Aren't you going to go downstairs and check?"

"Check what?" he answered calmly.

"Check to see who's breaking into our house!"

"I already know who's breaking into our house."

"Oh, really? Who?"

"A burglar," he told me. "A burglar is breaking into our house."

Well... duh!

"I wouldn't worry about it," he assured me.

"Why not?"

"Two reasons," he said, holding up two fingers. His fun ones. "One: we're rich, and two: we've got insurance."

Well, after much pushing and prodding from me, he "decided" to go down and see what the fuss was all about.

"Call 9-1-1," he ordered as he left.

"You bet," I said. "What's the number?"

Stealthily, he made his way out of the room and down the stairs. I picked up the phone.

Hmm... now what was that number again?

Again, there was a crash. And then much bumping around. Glass being broken. Furniture tossed. The TV channel being changed. Finally...

Silence.

"Christian!" I whispered loudly as I dialed for help. "Are you okay?"

There was a pause.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Christian finally replied.

My heart breathed a sigh of relief.

Well, it wasn't really my heart, but it would be vulgar of me to tell you exactly which body part made that exhalation.

"This is 9-1-1," a female voice on the phone said. "What is your emergency?"

"Osh kosh by gosh," I answered the voice. "Our house has just been broken into, and my husband confronted the burglar."

"He should have waited for the police," she told me.

Well... duh.

"That's what I told him," I replied, "but he wouldn't listen to me."

"Is he okay?" the 9-1-1 operator wanted to know.

"Yes," I said.

"What about the burglar?"

"Let me check." I put down the phone and yelled down the stairs. "Christian? What happened?"

"I scuffled with the burglar," he yelled back to me. "He had a gun, but I managed to wrestle it from him. Then he fell and hit his head against the bronze bust of Pallis that we keep for emergencies. I think he's dead."

"My husband thinks the burglar is dead," I picked the phone back up and told the operator.

"Is he sure?"

"Well, he IS a billionaire businessman. I would think he knows about these kind of things."

"Well, tell him to make sure."

"Make sure of what?"

"Tell him to make sure the burglar is dead."

"Okay," I told the voice, then yelled back down the stairs: "9-1-1 says to make sure the burglar is dead!"

"Are you sure?" Christian wanted to know.

"That's what she said!"

"Well... if SHE says so," he answered.

There was a pause. Then...

 _ **BANG!**_

"Okay!" Christian called out to me. "Now what?"


	22. After The Funeral

After the funeral, on our drive home, I couldn't help but ask Christian something I've wondered about off and on for years.

"Dearie," I said, "you've never told me the whole horrid story about how Mrs. Robinson's husband found out you were having an affair with his wife when you were fifteen."

"I didn't?" Christian replied.

"No, you didn't."

"Imagine that."

Christian sighed.

"Well," he said, "I was over Elena's house one afternoon—she had invited me for, ah, 'brunch,' you see—when her husband came home unexpectedly."

"And he CAUGHT you in the act?"

"Nothing quite so dramatic, Ana," he said. "No, fortunately Elena's early warning system gave us plenty of time to compose ourselves. We were sitting in the study when he came in.

"'Christian!' he greeted me. 'What an unexpected surprise.' He turned to Elena. 'You're always full of such surprises, my dear,' he told his wife. "Aren't you?"

"'Indeed,' she replied, dryly, and then excused herself. 'I have to see a man about a horse,' she explained.

"'A drink, Christian?' Mr. Lincoln offered.

"'I don't indulge,' I told him.

"'Indeed,' he said. 'Well, I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to have one.'

"As it turns out, he had more than one. More than a few, actually. I sat there making small talk. We were sitting as close as you and I, we were.

"'You're quite young, aren't you?" he said, suddenly leaning over and stroking my cheek with the palm of his hand. 'Mmm... soft. Your face feels just like my wife's vagina.'

"I reached up to see for myself.

"'Mmm...' I said, 'it sure does.'"


	23. The Drive Home

Growing old is not for sissies, my friends.

At MY advanced age, I can't help but notice everything on my body is heavier, hairier, and closer to the ground.

Why, just the other day Christian had a close call, and, if it weren't for his superior driving abilities, he might not be here to nibble my muffin.

Blueberry.

I was watching TV when the Fox news anchor-the one with the big tits-interrupted with Breaking News. Someone was driving down the freeway...

IN THE WRONG DIRECTION!

Well, my heart just about FROZE.

CHRISTIAN should be on his way home!

And he ALWAYS takes the freeway!

Holy crap, I was SO worried.

What if that idiot driving the wrong way was in a head-on collision with my beloved husband? How could I live without him? How could my life go on? How does that news anchor keep her teeth so white?

I immediately got on the phone.

"Christian!" I cried out when he answered. "Where are you?"

"I'm on the freeway," he said, calmly, "driving home."

"Well, be careful," I warned. "That blonde news anchor..."

"The one with the big tits?"

"Yes, That one. She's reporting that there's one driver on the freeway who's driving the wrong way!"

"Not just one, Ana," Christian informed me. "There's hundreds. And they're ALL driving the wrong way."


	24. Miss Forsythe

When people ask me if I trust my beloved husband Christian, I tell them absolutely.

With all my heart.

He may have been a bit of a rogue before I met him, but that's all changed.

Why, just recently he told me of a business trip he took with his personal secretary, Fiona Forsythe. A sexy, long-legged brunette who, though she tries to hide it, it's obvious she has the hots for him.

They were flying back on the red-eye, and dear Christian was trying to get some sleep.

"Christian," his secretary purred, "I'm cold. Would you be a dear and get me a blanket?"

"You're cold?" Christian asked.

She hugged herself and shivered.

"I am," she told him, making a pouty-face.

"And you'd like something to keep you warm?"

She leaned closer to him.

"Yes," she said, suggestively. "I would."

Christian considered that.

"Miss Forsythe, how would you like to pretend you're Mrs. Grey," Christian propositioned. "Just for this flight, I mean."

"Oh, Christian... I'd _love_ to pretend I'm Mrs. Grey."

"Then get your own blanket," he said.


	25. Beer Run

The phone rang in the middle of the night.

8 PM!

Can you believe it?

My beloved Christian answered the phone.

It was Elliott.

He was in a panic.

"Christian," I could hear him cry out over the telephone, "I sent Kate to the corner store for a six-pack of beer and she hasn't returned. That was TWO HOURS ago! What should I do?"

Leave it to Christian to keep his wits about him.

"If I were you," my husband advised his brother, "I'd go get my own beer."


	26. Bless Her Heart

Growing old, my friends, is not for sissies.

When I first met my beloved Christian my skin was flawless, like a porcelain doll's.

Now it looks like MapQuest.

"What's the matter, my love?" Christian asks me softly, seeing me studying my face in the mirror.

I give him a sad smile.

"My mother, bless her heart, once gave me some advice," I tell him. "She said, 'Ana,' because that's what she called me, 'Ana, don't EVER grow old."

I pause, and Christian gently takes my hand.

"I should have listened to her," I say.


End file.
